


Storyteller

by tigs



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-02
Updated: 2005-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:11:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigs/pseuds/tigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Welcome. I am Rodney McKay, Chief Scientific Officer here in Atlantis and this. This is story time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storyteller

John looks up from his slice of cake, rich and chewy, made with some of that damn good imitation chocolate they traded for on the waterfall planet last week, just in time to see Rodney sneak out of the dining hall. Sneak, John calls it, because Rodney is actually quiet about his exit for once, and as he chews, John tries to decide which should worry him more: the silence, or the fact that Rodney is willingly forgoing seconds on dessert.

Both, he decides, because after seven years of knowing him, John can tell when Rodney is up to something. Now the only question is whether it's up to him to figure out what's going on.

It's lunchtime in Atlantis so there are only about 40 people in the dining hall, soldiers and scientists and Athosians together, scattered around a room that can easily hold their 300 on feast nights. He's sitting with Ford and Bates, but they're discussing the wrestling tournament from the weekend before and John, quite honestly, tuned them out several minutes ago.

Another look to the door, now shut again, and John can't handle the not knowing, not when he knows Rodney is up to something, so he stands up quickly, nods to his companions, and pushes his chair away from the table before picking up his tray. It only takes him a minute or so to dispose of and then, after hurrying back through the room, he manages to make it out into the hallway just in time to see Rodney make his first turn down a passageway farther down the corridor.

A lot farther down, John notices; it's closer to the family living quarters than it is to the labs, and isn't that odd.

Rodney's moving quickly, but John is faster, so he lengthens his stride until he makes it to the hallway, and then he stops, watching, until the scientist makes another turn. Shaking his head, John pulls his life signs indicator out of his jacket, pinpoints Rodney's dot, and starts following at a more sedate speed. No sense in tipping Rodney off to his presence, after all, and he knows that if he follows Rodney closely enough he will.

But then Rodney's dot stops.

It stops in a place that John can't think of a reason for it to stop, so he starts moving more slowly again, wary of a trap. Rodney knows he's coming, John's sure, and his plan of finding out what in hell's name Rodney's up to has been foiled. Somehow.

He can't think of how, but it has.

But then again, maybe not, because despite his slower pace, John's almost on top of the dot now and Rodney has yet to step out of any recessed doorways, has yet to confront him and end this game of cat and mouse.

Rodney, in fact, is nowhere to be seen.

With John's own two eyes, at least. Now that he's closer, he can see that the dot on the life sign's indicator screen is moving back and forth millimeter by millimeter, and as he watches, the only thing John can think of is that Rodney is pacing.

Somewhere. Right here, behind the next door on the left, the one that's painted bright blue.

The door that Bates insisted *needed* to be bright blue, because nursery schools were supposed to be done up in bright colors, he said, and no matter that his kid was growing up a whole galaxy away from Earth, damn it, Sir, she *was* going to be attending a proper looking nursery school.

The inside of the room is done in reds and yellows, with green pillows and blue rugs to match the door. John can see all of the colors through the window, just like he can see Rodney pacing back and forth at the front of the room, head up, shoulders back, a Colonel reviewing his troops.

Just like John can see the cluster of ten children sitting at his feet, waiting with visibly baited breath.

Not quite believing what he's seeing, but sensing that it will be over with before it starts if Rodney sees him, John steps forward and plasters himself to the hallway wall. He inches as close as he can get to the window in an attempt to hear what Rodney is saying to the kids. He hears a few muffled giggles, and then Rodney starts talking.

"I see some new faces here today, so I should probably say welcome. Welcome. I am Rodney McKay, Chief Scientific Officer here in Atlantis, and this. This is story time."

John blinks. "Story time?" he murmurs. Rodney passed over his second dessert for *story time*?

"Those of you who are just joining us today should know that we have one rule here at story time. You, Bates. Tell me the rule."

If John didn't know better, didn't know that Rodney couldn't have seen him, he would have sworn Rodney was talking at him. There's a lilt to his voice that John recognizes, a slightly condescending tone, and John just can't not look, so he turns, leaving his shoulder pressed to the wall, leaning his head there, too.

Rodney's attention is focused on the children, though, and really, John's pretty sure that Rodney wouldn't really be doing this if he knew John was there. Seven years on Atlantis and John knows that Rodney still thinks he still has a reputation to preserve.

"We d'not talk 'bout story time," Bates' little girl says as all of the children dissolve into giggles, and John watches as she gives Rodney a salute with her pudgy little hand. He nods his head, saluting her right back.

"And you only *think* I'm kidding," Rodney says, but he continues quickly. "That's right, Bates. Very good. And that is a pop culture reference that none of you will ever understand, but that's okay, because remember, if we talk about story time--or at the very least, the storyteller--outside of this room, I will never hear the end of it. And that is not something that any of us want, now is it?"

Off in the corner of the room, John can see the teacher nodding her head, amused. She was one of the original soldiers to come through the gate, an elementary education major, and eventually they reached a point in their development on Atlantis when there were things they needed more than soldiers.

"Now, before we get started," Rodney continues. "I feel that I should tell you that today's story is not for the faint of heart. Today I shall be telling you a tale full of adventure, of dangerous beings--yes, Kavanagh, more dangerous than dragons--and the slightly fictionalized heroics of our favorite humble scientist. Me. And how I single-handedly brought the coffee plant to Atlantis. Parts of this story will not be pretty, but I feel that all of you are old enough to hear it. Am I right?"

John watches as young Stackhouse holds up his hand, his thumb pressed to his palm. "I'm old 'nough," he says. "I'm four."

"That's right," Rodney says. "You are four. And you're right, that is plenty old enough to hear the cold, hard facts."

John watches as Rodney turns on his heel once more, then as he sits down in his chair, looking down at the children. Seemingly as one they inch forward until they're right at his feet, close enough to touch the toes of his shoes.

"Today's story takes place several years ago, before any of you were born," Rodney starts. "Yes, there was life before you, Simpson. It's hard to believe, I know, but it's true. It was our second year here, and after we oh-so-heroically defeated the Wraith, we began to explore other worlds again, looking for more of the ever-elusive ZPMs."

There's a question that John can't hear--the children's voices don't carry as well as Rodney's does, but Rodney repeats it. "Did we find a ZPM? Well, that would give away the ending of the story, now wouldn't it? You'll just have to listen."

He takes a deep breath, leans forward so that his elbows are resting on his knees, and he begins again: "It began just like any other mission, except this time there was rain--"

And suddenly John remembers which mission Rodney is talking about, and he smiles a bit because it's not the rain he remembers all these years later, it's Rodney's complaining. He began practically the moment they stepped out of the jumper and he didn't let up for *two whole days*.

But what was so scary about it, John can't remember. What the 'cold hard facts' that Rodney wants to tell are, John has no idea.

"--but our dear Major--you all know him as the Colonel. This was before his first promotion, you see--refused to listen to my reasoning, so instead of hiking back to the Jumper, where we could have spent the night *inside* and protected by metal *two feet thick*, we had to camp outside. In the rain. We had to pitch our tents *in the rain.*"

Which wasn't exactly how it went, either. They were a good three miles from the jumper when the rain started, and John didn't see any sense in hiking all the way back when they were just going to have to retrace their steps again the next day. It just wouldn't have made any sense.

"But this wasn't just any rain, you see. It was a storm such as those you don't see but once every hundred years. It was raining so hard, the Major decided to let us forgo the watch. 'No living thing will be out on a night like this,' he said."

And John frowns, because that just makes him sound irresponsible. He'd had Ford set up a perimeter of electronic bells and whistles. They would have known immediately if someone had tried to walk into the camp. He just hadn't seen any point in making them all sit out in the rain for hours on end.

"It was up to me, of course, to ask the obvious question. 'Why then, dear Major,' I asked, 'are *we*?' And do you know what he said to me? He said, 'Don't worry, McKay.' He said, 'We'll be perfectly safe.' That's what he said, and do you know what? Can you guess what, Bates? Yes, the esteemed Major was *wrong*."

Rodney claps his hands as he says the last word and John watches as a few of the kids jump. A few more gasp.

"Wrong," Rodney repeats. "Because do you know what had happened the next morning when we woke up? No, of course you don't, because I haven't told you yet. The next morning, all of our food was *gone*. But it wasn't just *our* food that was gone. No, all of the food that we'd bought to trade with the local nomadic tribes the next day was gone, too. Crates of it vanished, kaput, no more. And this was in the day when we still took MREs on our missions. Literally, there was not a foil wrapper in sight.

"Yes, young ones. On this planet, this rain-drenched planet, we had found a species of foil eating aliens. Or so we thought. Lieutenant Ford and the Major were all for heading off into the woods in an attempt to waylay the thieves, but we had no way of knowing which way they'd gone, or if they were armed. For all we knew, we might have discovered an enemy that made the Wraith look like pussycats--and okay, none of you know what those are, but trust me. They're cute and cuddly, warm and fuzzy."

As John watches, Rodney makes an aborted gesture with his hands, as if scratching the ears of a cat. Rodney had a cat back on earth, John remembers, although for the life of him, he can't remember the creature's name.

"I was the one to suggest that we do a little bit of reconnaissance first. Take a look around the camp, see if the culprits had left any clues. I didn't have much hope, of course, because this is another thing about rain, and you should all remember this--it washes all the clues away. Usually. This time, however, the rain worked in our favor, because right in the middle of camp there was a puddle where there had been no puddle the night before.

"Something made this puddle different from all of the other puddles around, though. Can you guess what? No? Well, this puddle had four toes and a heel. It was a footprint, three feet long, two feet wide, completely filled by water.

"I said, 'Major, Ford! Over here!' And they came running from the trees, where they'd been conducting a fruitless search--in the wrong direction, I might add--"

John bites down on the tip of his tongue and he hears the sound of chuckling at his shoulder. Bates is standing there, looking around him and into the nursery school room.

"He still thinks he has a reputation to protect," Bates says, echoing John's thought from earlier, and he's got that look on his face that he gets whenever his daughter is anywhere within visual range. "He still thinks that his coming here is a secret."

It's not? John wants to ask, but instead he says, "How long?"

"A month, month and a half. I don't know why he started, but he's here every Wednesday after lunch. I found out about it the second week. He encouraged the kids not to mention who their mysterious storyteller was, apparently, but it sort of slipped out when I caught Mischa and Benji playing *McKay vs. the Aliens* in our living room."

John's lips twitch. "*McKay vs. the Aliens*, huh? He saves the day every time, does he?"

"Yup," Bates says. "But he's done it enough that I'm willing to let a few embroidered tales slip through."

John can only nod at that. He says, "But the squirrels weren't twelve feet tall, or whatever he's making them out to be. And they left lots of little footprints, not one big one. The only thing unusual about them was that they were--"

"--Purple squirrels," Rodney says in the room, and John returns his attention to the inside of the room only to see that Rodney is watching him now, too. "Six feet tall, with razor sharp claws and teeth like nails."

And on the nails and teeth, at least, Rodney is telling the truth. One got a hold of John's finger later in the story, and its teeth sunk right down to the bone. That was (and still is) an experience he's not keen on repeating.

"Once we knew what to look for, we could see the signs of their progress to and from the camp in the upper branches of the trees, because their claws had cut into the bark of the wood like it was wax, exposing the white flesh underneath. And once we knew what to look for they were easy enough to track, so we followed them all the way back to their camp, their lair. There were bones scattered around the entrance--"

John rolls his eyes and turns to look at Bates again. He's looking just as entranced as the children are, and John can't help but smile. It is a change of pace, this. Something almost normal in a world where different has become the usual. For a few seconds he lets himself relax in the moment, too, watching McKay's hands as they illustrate every word he speaks: as they rise above his head, then form into claws, slashing at the air. The children shriek, but they don't move any farther away. None of them look truly scared.

But John is pulled out of the story again when Rodney says, "--And so the Major was cornered by the leader of the squirrels. He was using his body to protect the boxes of food that we'd brought to trade, and he was waving his gun in the squirrel's face, but it just didn't seem to be getting the hint, so I--"

"He started tossing pinecones at them," John says to Bates. "The same way they tossed them at us when we reached the end of the trail of empty MRE wrappers. We gave them a taste of their own medicine and they didn't like it very much." He pauses for a moment, then says, "But of course I did, very heroically, defend our food. And the leader did attack me. It hung onto my finger for a good thirty seconds before I managed to get it off."

"Very brave," Bates says, chuckling.

"Rigged the pinecones with a sleeping gas," Rodney continues, "and I told the Major to drop to the floor and cover his mouth, and since he decided to listen to me for once, he did. The pinecones exploded and the next thing we knew, the squirrels were swaying on their feet, falling over, and we had to dodge their bodies as they fell. A squirrel tail can be a lethal weapon--you'd never think it, but it's true."

"They ran away," John says. "They didn't like the pinecones, so they ran away."

"I think I like McKay's version better," Bates says. "It has a certain flair."

"It has flair alright," John agrees.

"So, we rescued what was left of our food and we carried it onto the nomadic camp that had been our original destination, where we traded it for the seeds of a plant that makes something close to coffee. And as I've already told you on more than one occasion, coffee should be considered ambrosia, the drink of the gods. Yes, Kavanagh, it is better than chocolate. You'll agree with me when you're older."

Bates starts chuckling again, and John can't help but join in.

"So, children, there are three things that we can learn from this story. Can anyone tell me what the morals are?"

Some of the children answer, but John can't hear what they say. Rodney starts nodding, though, so he guesses at least one of them is right. "That's right, Simpson: coffee is worth much pain and suffering. Number two: nothing good can ever come of the color purple. And three: beware of squirrels. These are all very important lessons, especially number one, and I expect you to take them all to heart."

Then Bates says, "Busted," and when John focuses his attention back on Rodney, he can see that the other man is looking directly at him again. Bates pats him on the arm before he enters the nursery room and John watches as little Mischa squeals and runs into her father's arms, watches as he picks her up and swings her around.

He hears Mischa squeal, "Squirrels!" and still smiling, he reclines against the wall again, waiting for Rodney to make his exit. He doesn't have to wait long, only a minute or so, before Rodney is out in the hallway with him, looking only mildly embarrassed. His hands are stuck in his pockets and he stops a few feet away from John, rocking back on his heels.

"So," John says. "Story time, huh?"

"There is one rule of story time," Rodney says. "We do not talk about story time. I know you heard that part. You didn't think I was repeating it for the kids benefit, did you?"

John shakes his head, smiling at the pissy tone in Rodney's voice. Seven years in the Pegasus Galaxy and he still thinks that he can cow people with his over-handed manner. He still thinks that people believe there's more than verbal bite to his bark.

"You deviate from your moral code once," Rodney continues. "One time, for one sick child stuck in the infirmary, and suddenly you start doing a weekly story time. I tried to get out of it, did everything I could think of, but their teacher, she's a witch. She just won't take no for an answer."

They start moving back down the hallway, back in the direction of the labs, and John says, "You know you love it."

Rodney doesn't answer, but when John glances over at him, his lips are curved into a half smile.


End file.
